


Seeds of Discord Part 11

by kbj1123



Series: Wonder Woman & Captain America [12]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Crossover Pairings, F/M, One True Pairing, Sexual Content, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 20:53:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kbj1123/pseuds/kbj1123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone or something is causing violent riots to erupt all over the U.S., and whatever it is, it wreaks havoc with both Wonder Woman's health and Bruce Banner's ability to keep his rage in check.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeds of Discord Part 11

“I am here. I am here.” Diana breathes deeply. Finding that place of absolute quiet, absolute peace is too difficult, though. It isn’t the physical pain—bruises and cuts heal. Even the mental and emotional pain, the indignities thrust upon her by the sons and daughters of Nyx—the real one, not the human man who has taken her name—are endurable. She is furious, though. She let her guard down and allowed herself to be taken. 

On the other hand, she has valuable information for SHIELD, if she can regain her strength. THIS is the thing that terrifies her, though. She glances down at her torso—the lines of each of the muscles through her chest and abdomen. She pulls on her chains. She is so strong. They do not budge. Only the gods would know how to weaken and subdue her. Getting quiet, finding that white spaciousness where there is peace, isn’t necessarily impossible. It is a place of vulnerability, though. Vulnerability got her here. Then again, vulnerability and receptivity also brought her much happiness. How long has she been here?

If she cannot be alone in the quiet of her mind, she can find another way to center herself. The Princess of Themyscira, favorite child of the goddesses and Hermes, closes her eyes and focuses on relaxing the muscles of her cranium. Her brow, the center of her intuition, resists softening. She imagines sending healing breath to the place another culture calls the “third eye.” She invites her jaw and throat to soften, and then her heart center. She sees green. Green, bright, loving energy spreads from the spaciousness of her heart. She can see him in her mind’s eye. “Hear me,” she says to her mind’s image of Steve. “Find me.”

She is on a beach, but it isn’t really home. This isn’t the same kind of distraction that happens when she does asana sequences with Bruce. She wonders if her friend is okay. Was he taken as well? Is he suffering? If he is still safe, she is sure Steve blames him for her abduction. “Please forgive him,” she mentally says to Steve. She walks in the wet sand toward the ruins of a temple dedicated to Artemis. The statue is partly destroyed, and the marble arrows spill from their quiver. She puts her hand to the cool marble of one of the dismembered hands. It warms to her touch, and the palm opens. Diana lies down and places her cheek in the living marble of Artemis’s right hand and closes her eyes. She prays.

When she opens her eyes and stands, she sees a fiery chariot on the horizon, back where she started. She makes her way towards it. Her feet hover just an inch above the sandy earth. She kneels, bowing her head deeply because the driver is Apollo Himself. Apollo is known for his appetite for beautiful women, but Diana is not afraid. Her guardian is his sister, and he will not violate her. He is beautiful. His hair is the color of the sun, and it flows into the atmosphere as if it were pure light. He has revealed himself to her almost in full. His nudity is an honor and a given, just as it is for her. She remembers her confusion about this when she first came to Man’s World—the obsession with covering the body. The body is a gift. This is Apollo’s body, not an avatar. She is kneeling in front of a god for the second time in her life. Cold tears spill from the rims of her eyes. She is blessed beyond any measure of man or Amazonian. This body is neither sexual nor shameful; it is simply him, the god of the sun, the truth, of music and poetry. When he extends his smooth, strong hand to her, she takes it, and he lifts her to him. She cannot see his face. She is not worthy of the perfect face of Apollo. And yet, when he presses his lips to hers, she knows his face. She knows the curve of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose. She knows his eyes are like the ocean after a storm, and she knows his high, noble brow. His lips are full, and without opening his mouth, he tells her what she needs to know. The sun, every deepest truth she has, every song and poem ever written, moves through her like life-blood. 

She stands on the beach, right where she started. She sees her beloved husband. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and he looks desperate and tired. She motions him to follow, and she turns to walk toward the center of the sun itself. It doesn’t burn. She possesses Hestia’s gift of affinity with fire. The heat is cleansing. Everything she is not, every bit of her that is bruised, and cut, burns away. Layers of skin, and the black bits of hatred she’s discovered beneath the skin, turn to ash and fall away. She is becoming pure again. She reaches out for Steve because she knows she can protect him from the flames. They can become more than what they already are. She already knows what is in his third heart. 

She sees green again. Green, clear light, her heart’s own energy, fills her. Diana opens her eyes and is aware of an overall sense of calm and well-being. Still shackled, she stands taller. Without knowing why, she slides one foot across a stone slab and it moves. With effort, the stone slides away, revealing a small cavity in the dirt. In the dirt, there lies Artemis’s bow and a quiver of silver arrows. Diana slides the slab back across the floor. Every poem ever written, every song ever sung, thrums through her veins. She leans her head back against the wall and smiles.


End file.
